


Looking Without Looking

by helens78



Category: Wilby Wonderful (2004)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Strip Tease, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-26
Updated: 2010-05-26
Packaged: 2017-10-12 14:49:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/125996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duck MacDonald has always been aware of how good-looking Buddy French is, ever since they were kids, and he's learned how to look without looking.  That gets a whole lot more difficult when Buddy decides he wants to be seen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Looking Without Looking

The thing is, Buddy has been beautiful since he was a kid, and it's not like you can grow up beautiful and not know it. _Duck_ has sure as hell always known it; knew it when he was too young to really notice things like that, when it was all about the grown-ups around them saying things like "Oh, that Buddy French, he's going to be a real heartbreaker when he grows up"; he got to know it _real_ well when he was twelve, thirteen, fourteen and trying to hide his random hard-ons in the locker room. Luckily for him, most fourteen-year-olds spend _most_ of their time with random hard-ons, so he only got the usual amount of shit for it.

Buddy's thirty now, still the same age as Duck, still beautiful, and not much else is different here on Wilby, either. The Watch is still what it's always been, at least since Duck was old enough to go; the people still turn a mostly blind eye to what goes on there, so long as the men go home to their wives, or their bars, or whatever they've got that keeps Wilby able to think of them as normal. For Duck, it's the odd jobs and the handy-work, the truck and the paint-splattered overalls. Normal, as long as you don't try to fix him up with your cousin from the mainland, or your friend's sister's friend who's new to Wilby.

Duck never sees Buddy at the Watch; he has lots of fantasies about it, but it doesn't happen. Instead, he tends to run into Buddy at unexpected times--not just stuff like shopping for groceries at the same time or needing to fill up with gas on the same Thursday afternoon, but completely random places, like the alley out back of the dry cleaners on a day Duck got called out to fix a busted door. In and out in twenty minutes flat, out the back door and _wham_ , Buddy French, leaning up against his patrol car, smoking a cigarette, looking like a goddamn wet dream all in one pretty blue-eyed package.

"Hey," Duck had said, because he couldn't say _nothing_ ; couldn't just stand there, dick getting hard in his overalls, hoping like hell it could be chalked up to something innocent, an unnatural fetish for that clean laundry smell, maybe.

"Hey," Buddy had said back, and that was about as many words as they exchanged in an average two weeks, so Duck headed back to his truck, went home, and jerked off quick and furious, thinking about that fucking uniform, about how bad he'd wanted to _be_ Buddy French's cigarette.

* * *

It's not like Buddy's stalking him. Wilby's a small town. Not too many people. Not too many places. On a crazy day where the temperature hits a near-record high of 35°, Duck goes off to a rocky inlet that's a little too shaded to sunbathe and a little too rocky for diving, strips his shirt off, and leans back on one of those rough rocks, squirming to give that spot behind his shoulders a good scratch. He's got a new paperback and a mini-cooler full of ice and a few bottles of water; he's got the place to himself. It's going to be a good day.

He's nearly halfway to la-la land when he hears footsteps, and he squints up to see Buddy, who's been out jogging, of all things. He's got track shorts on, and his t-shirt is soaked clean through with sweat. His hair's wet with it.

"Hey," Duck says, but his tongue's so thick in his mouth he's not sure it was a recognizable sound.

"Hey," Buddy says. He's a little out of breath, but not much. He runs both hands through his hair and knocks some sweat loose. "What're you reading?"

"Book," Duck says, holding it up for a second, tossing it back down on the ground. "You're _running_ on a day like this? Are you crazy?"

Buddy laughs at him. "Feels good to warm up."

"Yeah."

"So you got dibs on this place or you mind some company?"

Duck shrugs. "Pull up a rock. I got some water if you want some."

"Oh, fuck, yeah."

Duck sits up and pulls the lid off the cooler, and when he looks back up, Buddy's taken his shoes off. Okay, reasonable thing to do; guy's probably got sweaty feet, and by the way he lays his socks out, Duck figures he just wants them to dry out.

He lifts the bottle up so Buddy can reach it, but Buddy's not through yet; he takes his shirt off, too, and yes, _fine_ , Jesus, Duck did it first, Buddy's covered in sweat, but... God, he looks good, pale pink skin, broad shoulders, collarbones that Duck could lick across and probably get off just from that alone.

And so when Buddy loses the track shorts, too, stands there in nothing but a jock (a jock, _really_? the man goes around running in a fucking _jock strap_?), Duck still tries to convince himself it's normal, all the while trying to figure out some way to make himself stop _staring_.

Buddy's looking at him--Duck can't read that expression for the life of him--and then he shoves a thumb under the elastic at the side of the jock, and slips it down, down his legs and steps out of it, and Duck nearly drops the water bottle. He hasn't seen Buddy head-to-toe naked since high school, never actually saw it at a time and place where he was free to look, and Buddy's expression may be shuttered, but it's not a _fuck you, faggot_ look, either, so Duck just holds out that water and alternates between thinking _what the fuck, God_ and _thank you, Jesus, thank you, thank you_.

Finally, Buddy takes the water; he twists the cap off and upends the whole goddamn thing over himself, and Duck fumbles for his shirt, fumbles his way into it--it's inside out and backwards and he really doesn't give a shit. "I gotta," he says, grabbing for his paperback, holding it in front of his crotch--like that's going to do any good. "Painting," he says. "There's--"

"Your shirt's on backwards," Buddy points out. He groans as he sets himself down on a rock. Duck doesn't want to look, but--but, God, how could anybody _not_ look at that?

He calms down a little and takes his shirt back off, because hey, Buddy mentioned it--he can fix that before he goes. It takes him a minute to get it righted, because his hands are shaking so bad, and because he's trying to look at Buddy without _looking_ at Buddy. That's the rule; you don't _look_ , you don't _stare_ , you pretend everything is normal-- _especially_ with the so-called straight guys.

Of course, your so-called straight friend isn't supposed to strip his clothes off right in front of you and lie there looking like something out of the hottest gay porno _ever_. If there are unspoken rules about this kind of thing, Buddy is breaking every last goddamn one of them.

"C'mere," Buddy murmurs, soft and beckoning. He doesn't crook a finger, but Duck feels like maybe he cast some kind of spell, because Duck's walking back, going down to his knees real slow, so if Buddy wants to freak out or tell him to stop or sock him one in the face, he's got the time.

Buddy just puts his hand in Duck's hair and says, "About fucking time, Duck," and Duck says a quick _thank you, God_ before he finds out how Buddy French tastes.

 _-end-_


End file.
